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Back in the days when soccer balls were made of thick leather, gaining
weight on contact with water, in a game played during the worst
weather, I skillfully chest-trapped a long and curving lob from
Franklin Fibbs, arching my body for increased control as it rolled down
hardened abs and rigid thigh muscles; raising my left knee to create
precise but deceptive lift and rocketed that sucker past a clueless
goalkeeper to register the team's one-nil win.

As I remember it, linesman Felix "Baldy" Hernandez stood in awe as
supporters of both teams set aside allegiances, offering a thunderous
ovation, that noise and the piercing of referee Austin "Jack" Warner's
whistle conspiring to yank me out of the dream, its details rekindled
earlier this week on reading of Scotland-based Russell Latapy's return
to our national football team.

Despite my nocturnal reverie, I am among the many who lost interest in
local football since the retirement of star players and demise of teams
they comprised in an era long gone, the likes of "Chalkie" Hamel-Smith,
Carlton Franco, Lincoln Phillips, Kelvin Berrassa, Vivian Manswell and
Jose Gruny delighting fans in front of the Grand Stand, games late in
any season bringing new meaning to the Best Dark Virginia (BDV) cup
tournament, as waning light increased challenges facing players.

Perhaps it was the standard conspiracy of distractions that caused me
to select alternative entertainment options as I attained manhood but
there remains a niggling suspicion that the game itself had lost some
of its pizzazz with the exit of heroes revered by all, irrespective of
team affiliation, men of great talent who played for recreation
exclusively, opportunities for realising fortunes from the sport not
yet available locally; fans riding bicycles right up to the touch-line
to take in the action at close range.

There would come a time when Horace "Pepper-wine" Lovelace collected a
clean pass and began his travel down the flank, the crowd reduced to a
hush of anticipation, for it was a Colts vs Malvern game, a joust
historically laden with unbridled passion, fans taking nothing for
granted until the final whistle. Indeed, there were several predictable
moments, not limited to clashes between rival teams but individual
players that peaked interest in games to which they were already glued.

Then, as time would have it, migration set in and our best players
simply disappeared from the picture, even as the frame itself
collapsed, fans deciding on other pursuits as young blood filled
locker-rooms, replacing the sights and sounds to which we had become
accustomed, even the Northern League subsiding, as small-goal football
set in with rules quite different from those of the FIFA-endorsed game,
making light of the joust that once boasted gentlemanly conduct on the
field; albeit producing some identifiably skilled artisans from the
inevitable goal-mouth scrimmage.

There are those who firmly believe this poor-man's version of the game,
largely played on unkempt fields and tarmac schoolyards after the
evening bell, helped reduce nurturing of critical techniques required
for major league application, saying even the most clever set-plays
devised for the small-goal configuration were useless on a full-sized
field but widespread availability of playing outlets near to the homes
of participants increased popularity of the contrived adaptation.

Whatever the truth of such arguments, not just its goalkeepers but
major league football itself took a dive, remaining down for some
considerable time before a new breed of players surfaced, among them
the diminutive Latapy, 37, appropriately titled "The Little Magician,"
a moniker conferred since his days as an Under-10 player and one he
continued to justify right up to and through achievement of his current
status as player/assistant coach with Scottish premier league team
Falkirk.

"Latas," as he is familiarly known, is from my hometown of Success
Village, Laventille, which puts an even higher shine on his
achievements, given the stereotyping of my homies. From early in his
career, the name Latapy has been compared to greats of that golden era,
like Carlton "Squeaky" Hinds and in the next wave, Warren Archibald,
Everald "Gally" Cummings and a host of attacking footballers.

Not that I demand of Latas that, with a single swing of the leg, he
reverse the team's fortunes as it struggles to secure a place in next
year's World Cup Finals but the comfort that his return brings to not
just fans but on the evidence, fellow players, imports a psychological
boost that may even be strong enough to take me to the Hasely Crawford
Stadium on September 3 to watch a little magic, or at the least;
continue the dream.